


Que Será, Será

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films), The Wolf Man (1941)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Choose Not to Warn, Crossover, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hope, Love, M/M, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: The discovery of a badly mutilated body conjures old memories for Watson and a new objective: seek Larry Talbot, a man who should be dead and help in any way possible before more people die. Yet what will be the price?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	1. It Begins Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover of the Rathbone film universe with _The Wolf Man series_ which began with the 1941 film. The Wolf Man series had a timeless quality to it, so in keeping with that I haven’t set any date for my story. 
> 
> **Remember, here be werewolves so proceed with caution.**

* * *

Autumn had struck sharply with cold mornings and bitter winds. The smog over London thickened with the early morning mist and pollution. It was a dank and miserable combination.

Watson's bones ached, especially the injury he had sustained in his leg during the Great War. This week was particularly bad, so Holmes had dashed off to Scotland alone on his latest case, promising to be home in a few days.

As such, Watson hadn't been thrilled to be dragged out of bed by Lestrade to see to a body. As he struggled into his boots and overcoat, Watson had attempted to point out that the police had their own surgeons, which Lestrade ignored.

Even so, Watson had tried another tack while he checked his medical bag and locating his cane. Unfortunately, spluttering that he knew other younger _fitter_ doctors who could move faster than his gammy leg, was useless to the strangely nervous Inspector.

At last, slightly worried by Lestrade's odd behaviour Watson merely mumbled his inspection list as he checked his bag, then thrust his Gladstone at the Inspector.

A frozen and foggy drive later had Watson at the morgue. Yet it was only when Watson stood ready over the cadaver that he understood.

“The poor man was brutally attacked by some unknown creature - escaped wolf probably. My files show you dealt with victims in such an awful state in Llanwelly?”

Watson nodded in numb horror. 

A torn out throat, savaged torso and claw marks.

It had begun again.

_Oh Larry._

"Beats me how anyone could fit a pet wolf in a London home without it being bleating obvious. You have to exercise and feed the creature."

Lestrade snorted in contempt, spitting out the rest. "Knowing the type, they probably didn't feed the poor animal. I do still think it unlikely, but since none have escaped the zoo, we have to investigate that route."

His fingers tapped irritatingly against the steel examining slab.

“Could be something else...a metal claw or a peculiar knife.” Watson grimaced at his weak protests, but pushed on. “You know Holmes, we mustn't theorise without facts.”

“I could do with that annoying detective right now, but don't tell him I said that!”

“Your secret is safe with me Inspector.” Watson glanced at the contents of his medical bag, already laid out neatly by the assistant who was fetching gloves

“You may wish to leave Inspector..?”

To Watson's relief Lestrade left in a gratifying hurry.

Watson touched the mangled throat, stomach churning. Larry had died four years ago, yet somehow Watson _knew_ this was Larry's handiwork. Holmes would scoff, but witnessing a man transform into a werewolf broadened your horizons as Watson found.

Could there be no peace for the cursed?

_I am so sorry Larry._

Yet what to do? 

Watson traced the visible injuries reaching the torn open stomach and inhaled sharply. The stench was unpleasant but he was accustomed to such sights and smells so it bothered him little.

Watson was more concerned about the choice he had to make, for whichever path he selected promised pain. His gaze fell on ripped skin patterning the palms of the victim where they had fought futilely against Larry.

Could he allow this to happen again? Could he permit Larry to continue on without interference? What if he infected another by accident just as he had been inflicted?

Of course not, the physician and friend within him rebelled at doing nothing.

Watson felt scant comfort at his decision, for his options - and chances - were grim. He would do the same as before: try to save Larry while protecting the innocent. Even if it meant that Larry must die, Watson had no other choice. He owed it to Larry so he could have an opportunity at eternal peace.

First, he had to examine the cadaver to be certain of his instincts. Second, he would visit Larry's grave to be sure on that aspect and then...then he would pursue Larry. He could guess to whom Larry would seek aid from and Watson fretted for her sake.

Glancing back at the head and neck area, Watson leant down to peer at the exposed tendons - was that the tip of a claw?

Retrieving his tweezers to remove the evidence Watson was profoundly grateful for Holmes absence. No insightful questions which would leave Watson mumbling worse than usual in an attempt to cover his tracks.

Most importantly, having Holmes off to chase supposed ghosts in the glens of Scotland would at least keep Holmes safe.

“Sorry old boy,” Watson found himself mumbling. “A friend and doctor's duty.”

Footsteps echoed on the stone floor, altering Watson to the approach of the medical assistant, so he gathered his composure, tucking the claw tip into a small pill box he used for his medicine.

If he was fortunate he would live to return to his friend, or if he was merely lucky he would die. If he was _unlucky_ he would bear the mark of the werewolf and there would be no coming home.

_Please forgive me my dear Holmes, but this is a soldier's honour as well._

“Ready Doctor Watson?”

“Of course, let us begin.”


	2. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson seeks Larry and discovers an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in an update! The next couple of chapters shall come more quickly. =^~^=
> 
> I am very fond of Maleva in The Wolf Man, so this is my opportunity to have her interact with another favoured character, Doctor Watson.

* * *

Frozen grass crushed under his feet as he struggled up the incline. Watson was exhausted. Weeks after following newspaper reports of “animal killings” (always under a full moon) had led him to the abode of Doctor Frankenstein.

Alas he had arrived too late.

The creature had been revived and in foolish desperation the innkeeper had brought explosive destruction upon the castle.

Heart heavy with sorrow Watson now sought frantically for Maleva for no word had come of her from the stupid young doctor, or the traumatised Baroness Frankenstein. Reaching the top of the steep hill on which the castle had once perched, Watson sucked in shallow breaths, clutching his throbbing leg. Finally the grip on his lungs loosened, becoming less like icy tipped claws and more of a faint but persistent burning ache.

“Maleva? Maleva are you here? It is Doctor Watson.”

There was no sound but the wind and the day draining from the world turning the twilight to a deep purple. Shivering despite his scarf, heavy coat and gloves, Watson fingered his sturdy revolver in his pocket. Keeping one hand on it, he clasped his stick in his other hand as he walked slowly through the changing world. He did not have much time, for soon winter would settle in properly and his opportunity of finding Maleva would decrease rapidly. 

The cold silver of the wolf’s head gracing the top of his stick burned through his gloves, a painful reminder of when Larry used to wield this very item, before Larry’s father took it and without realising brandished it against his own son. Gifted to Watson upon the broken man’s death, it was his only tangible link to the past beyond the flesh and blood connection to Maleva.

Maleva who had endured too much surely with her son Bela then her adopted son Larry. How many times must this strong and kind woman weary such terrible hurts? Haunted by his fears Watson forced his sore and aching body forward, leaning ever more heavily on the wolf’s head and the resilient metal and wood of the staff.

Navigating the torn apart earth – rocks and stone masonry jutting out everywhere, while broken tree limbs pierced the blackening sky in a sick torment. Eventually however, Watson reached the torn foundations of Doctor Frankenstein’s castle and a flicker of hope kindled within him.

Perhaps Maleva had sought sanctuary within.

“Maleva!? It is Dr Watson and I am alone.”

For a moment the chilly air held only silence and Watson was aware of how the night was abruptly sprung upon them as twilight flipped to night. Faintly white stars slowly began to appear.

Grimly aware that even though two monsters had been vanquished there were plenty of other horrors in the world – both human and non-human – that embraced the coming of the night, Watson steeled himself to enter the ruins even as his heart sank.

His leg would hardly permit such a venture, but for Maleva’s sake he would dare much. Watson steadied his breathes and his resolve and fumbled for the lantern hanging off his belt, opening the shutter, while debating whether to pull free his torch for he couldn’t loosen his grip on his walking stick and he may need his left hand for a weapon. At least with the lantern on his belt his left hand remained free.

Watson started as his deliberations were broken by a raspy voice.

“Doctor, it has been a long time.”

“Four years!”

Watson nearly wept with relief at the well-loved voice, pain briefly forgotten as he saw Maleva emerge. She was exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes and oh...such an expression of weariness and grief that Watson was crying.

“I am so sorry my dear. I tried catching up, but I was always two steps behind.”

Maleva stumbled forward and Watson opened his arms. She fell into his embrace and they stood together, seeking and offering comfort as their hearts bled tears of sadness and loss.

“There was nothing you could have done Doctor Watson. Larry wished for death and now he has found it at last.”

The cruel knowledge bit through Watson. “Then you have lost two sons Maleva. I..I…”

“Shush, my dear Doctor. There is no need to speak. Both of my boys are in a better world than this one.”

Old hands curled around his wrists so Watson stepped out of the embrace and looked upon Maleva. Her smile was small, but genuine.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Never was an option to do otherwise my dear woman. But...do...do you think it is truly over?”

A troubled expression sleeted across Maleva’s face. “I pray so for I have not the strength to make such a journey again.”

Watson twisted his wrists under Maleva’s hold to show his gloved hands, palms up. “I will Maleva if needed, do not fret any longer. Let me take you home.”

Maleva nodded and allowed Watson to assist her down the steep hill, carrying her meagre belongings between them. It was tiring difficult work for Watson’s condition was not much better than Maleva’s, yet somehow they managed in the gloom.

At the bottom Watson loaded Maleva’s belongings into the little horse drawn cart he had utilised on the old ramshackle roads. Then, with an exchange of awkward fumbling, shifting and familiar fond mumbling he successfully assisted Maleva up into the passenger seat.

Yet, as she settled down on her he felt the wind change and the scent of wolfsbane tickled his nose.

Surely not out here?

Nervous, Watson glanced about the black landscape then upwards. A moon was emerging, bright and remote. Chilled by a premonition of sharp teeth, footfalls in the night and a lonely tortured howl Watson climbed painfully onto the seat next to Maleva.

She petted his hand gently and Watson knew Maleva had felt the same forbidding. Taking a final look at Larry’s resting place, Watson bid a silent farewell to his friend.

_Au revoir Larry_ \- _I fear we shall meet again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written originally for Spooktacular Prompt, Week 3: Frankenstein: _Whether it's in reference to the story, the challenge to Mary Shelley (and others) to come up with a spooky tale, or just the mishmashing of random bits together, use the word or one of the underlying concepts to inspire your work._


	3. The Moon Shone Brightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfsbane is blooming again on an autumn night with the moon shining so brightly. In the distance a wolf’s howl rises and Watson knows that the nightmare has begun afresh. Now he must act, but first, he must settle affairs with Holmes which leads to a surprising revelation.

* * *

The relationship between Watson and his detective had been tipsy turvy since Watson's return from the Continent. Holmes was clearly hurt by Watson's reticence, only allayed begrudgingly when Watson had explained it wasn't his secret to reveal.

Instead Watson was conscious of Holmes' observations, the manner in which his friend scrutinised Watson’s glances at the moon or checking their newly potted wolfsbane plant.

In an attempt to soothe rightly ruffled feathers Watson tried to be more obliging on cases and in spending more time with Holmes (which was already considerable).

One day, a year to the day in fact, since that night on the hill, Watson was up early, unable to sleep. Autumn had descended once more upon London, bringing with it a bitter chill and filling the parks with vibrant hues of red, orange and bronze foliage. Watson couldn’t help but recall autumn of yesteryear with a shudder, so determined to dispel the grim memory he went into their sitting room to opened the curtains so he could peer out.

Even though it was night-time the view ought to be pleasant on Baker Street – he might even be fortunate to spy a fox or vixen busy on a final forage for food before the human populace came out in force. Watson deliberately left the room in darkness to he could see the stars more clearly.

However, as he surveyed the night clad world Watson froze.

The moon was still visible, a pale yet ominously full circle. Its rays bathed Watson and the room in a pearly sheen. In the distance Watson could hear a faintly mournful yet vengeful howl.

Somehow he knew it not to be a dog.

Sick with trepidation Watson glanced down to discover the wolfsbane he had planted on his return. The plant was now in full bloom.

Memories of his parting with Maleva rushed through Watson and he released the curtains with shaking fingers. Breathing in the suddenly cloying fragrance of the wolfsbane Watson hardly reached his chair before he had to sit.

An hour passed before Watson could order his thoughts and decide on a course of action, plagued by memories of gunfire, a good honest man driven close to despair by his affliction and of a dark wood and the smell of wolfsbane. Haunting memories of an illness he could not cure howled mournfully in his head, causing his head and heart to ache simultaneously.

_Silver and a stick, a tomb with a coffin full of wolfsbane, a ruptured crypt full of autumn leaves and stained blood; a lonely hill full of desolation with one friend buried and another cold and grief-stricken._

“What is it Watson? For heaven's sake, my dear fellow, _tell me_!” Holmes' voice banished the ghosts of the past.

Watson blinked and focused on Holmes who was kneeling beside him, worry evident. 

“You'll think I'm mad Holmes.”

Holmes curled a hand over his, grey eyes bright. The gesture was warm and intimate, the look in those beloved grey eyes full of an affection neither dared speak aloud.

“Never Watson.”

Watson was pierced by another pain, different from his grief over Larry and his fears for Maleva. This pain was for his dear Holmes who was clearly hurting from Watson’s reticence. Guilt seeped through Watson at the quiet invasive grief he had brought to their relationship.

How many times had Holmes protected him, chasing after enemies who tried kidnapping his doctor? Or, if succeeding could Watson ignore Holmes’ implacable will in seeking him out and rescuing him? How many times had Holmes defended his friendship with Watson not only to his brother Mycroft or Lestrade, but even to Watson himself?

No, he could not deny Holmes the truth and…Watson searched the affection in the expression he loved so well and a fragment of hope fluttered in his breast at what may be if only he had the courage.

He had fought in a War once and beside his genius detective plenty of times, yet this was a different courage altogether and could break a friendship.

Still, hoping and yearning to correct their relationship as well as to lighten his burden, Watson steeled himself for the next step and prayed words would not fail him too badly.

Carefully, daring more than he ever had, but always desperately wanted and needed so much now, he covered Holmes’ hand with his own and squeezed. Then, with trembling fingers, he traced the veins in the back of Holmes’ hand, meeting Holmes’ astonished expression with everything he wished to say but was choked up in his throat in a myriad of mutters and stutters.

The result was instantaneous.

For a second Holmes’ jaw dropped in surprise, causing cold fear to rend Watson like a werewolf’s claws, but as quickly as Holmes was shocked, his friend’s mouth snapped shut. Grey eyes burned with a sudden desperate happiness and Holmes was smiling widely.

His friend rose and without further ado squeezed into the seat beside Watson. Fortunately the armchair was generous and even though it was a tight fit, Watson revelled in the press of Holmes’ body and Holmes’ free hand rubbing his sore knee. Holmes slipped his free arm about Watson. His voice was rough, the normally rational detective in a nervous flutter of emotion, as if he was about to listen to a musical piece crafted by a new master.

“Watson, my dear _John_ , please share your fears with me.”

Hearing his Christian name on Holmes’ lips was a dizzying experience and it took a moment for Watson to gather his composure.

“ _Sherlock_ , I…thank you…”

His friend grinned – or would that be paramour or boyfriend now? Watson couldn’t decide and Sherlock gave him no time, merely pulling Watson impossibly closer. The open affection in Sherlocks expression was so beautiful and what Watson had deemed impossible to obtain that he dropped his head to Holmes’ shoulder.

Holmes adjusted his grip, so that he could stroke through Watson’s hair even as his other hand slipped a little further up, from his sore knee and closer to Watson’s groin, squeezing the flesh there with an attitude that informed Watson that Holmes was going nowhere.

Apparently his friend was far more audacious in such romantic affairs that Watson, whose own love history was far more restrained and exaggerated for the sake of the papers.

Sighing at the gentle ministrations as well as blushing at the placement of Holmes’ hand, Watson shut his eyes and began his tale. It was a hard task, for the tale was a sad one full of woe and of magic, where the supernatural held sway over the waking and non-waking worlds. The supernatural that Holmes and never particularly subscribed to, (though to be fair to his friend, the detective had not summarily dismissed either).

Recalling Larry’s desperation and terrors of what he perceived of his growing mental illness, the psychological torture Larry had endured while Watson attempted to parse a diagnosis from the frighteningly – and inexplicable – fast healing of his wound, of Larry’s encounter and Maleva’s warnings…of poor Gwen…was agony.

Recounting the events of one year ago was equally horrible for when Watson revealed the decision he made in the mortuary Holmes was deeply unhappy. He did not move away from Watson, but his abomination was acute.

“Never again Watson! How could you? I would never leave you.”

Watson couldn’t help the bitter resentment that rose at that.

“Promise never to play dead again first old boy, then we have an accord.”

Holmes startled and his shoulder shifted under Watson’s cheek, the wool fabric of his night robe a welcome distraction.

“You have me there Watson. I swear to you that I will not do so without your full knowledge.”

The sincerity was plain and without guile so Watson relaxed, allowing some of his old resentment to fade away. Instead he wrapped up his tale with what had happened only this night.

Even though his had mumbled his way through some of the parts, too emotional to be able to speak always clearly Holmes had been patient, questioning when necessary and so very loving it was nearly overwhelming.

Indeed, it was a relief to unburden his soul, along with the practical knowledge that he would need help this time. There was also the fact that it was implausible Holmes would not follow Watson wherever he went so Watson might as well be upfront.

The morning sun had risen as they talked, but it only appeared as a cold and pale disc barely visible through the sudden fog that had sprang up. Inside their living room Holmes was awash with incredulity and horror.

Once Watson had finished Holmes was quiet. Watson waited in dread for Holmes' verdict only to find a warm expression when he raised his head off Holmes’s shoulder.

Holmes kept his one hand on Watson’s thigh, but used the other to take Watson’s right hand.

“A strange tale Watson and if anyone but you had the audacity to relate such facts I would laugh them off. However, I know my Watson – my John. You may be affected by flights of fancy, but you would never speak of werewolves unless certain and never lie about such an adventure. Without doubt, you would only devote yourself to such a grave undertaking if true.”

Watson blinked back tears at Holmes’ faith and struggled to do more than mumble a “Thank you Holmes", that left him blushing.

Holmes stopped his embarrassment by squeezing his hand. His marvellous detective paused for a second then raised their clasped hands and brushed a kiss on Watson’s cold digits. Watson could feel the heat swamping his cold cheeks and saw the faintest blush on Holmes’ cheeks, even though the grey eyes were full of love and that mischief that rarely boded well for the miscreant Holmes fixed his gaze upon.

Knowing his love and adoration was returned had his stomach nearly as bad as the night he had witnessed Larry’s transformation, though this had a far more pleasant source.

Holmes sprang to his feet abruptly, still flushed and demanded that Watson eat breakfast. Amused by Holmes' antics Watson ate toast with jam while Holmes expanded nervous energy pacing and thinking in-between bites of marmalade toast.

* * *

_Late Afternoon_ found them searching the area around the London Hospital in Whitechapel. One of Watson's former colleagues had been quite useful when contacted for information on receiving patients fitting a specific set of parameters.

Whilst the reply had been a negative, his former colleague, Kotov, had mentioned the odd occurrences of the night: peculiar howls and growls and in the case of said friend the sensation of being followed – and not by the typical criminal either, but by something that was distinctly more animal.

The only part of his former colleague’s story that had Watson worried was that the reports were conflicting. Holmes was not so fretful, considering how often witness accounts were contradictory, yet Watson couldn’t shake the sensation of _wrongness_.

The slaughter of a pigs in the animal pens near the docks by an unknown wild animal? Watson conceded this could be Larry, yet this apparently occurred simultaneously – or at least within half an hour of his former colleague’s creepy encounter.

To Watson’s unfortunate experience and Maleva’s recounting of her son Bela, no werewolf could cover the distance from the docks to the hospital in such a short space of time – at least not in the time spent killing and devouring the pigs, on top of being discovered. How Larry had escaped with his life and identity intact was beyond Watson.

Sheer dumb luck most likely. Even so, that discovery and description – which had Lestrade howling about on the phone to Watson – conflicted with the timing for when his colleague was walking home.

After discussing Watson’s concerns, his dear Sherlock had comforted him and suggested that they start their search the area near the hospital area whilst Sherlock’s irregulars swept the dock area.

Then they would move to the docks and focus on there.

Glancing at the sky, Watson bit his lip. Evening was drawing in with the sun low and at that angle which blurred one’s vision at an inopportune moment. Time was running out before the moon rose again and their search had been less than fruitful, though Holmes seemed interested in some scuff marks on a low wall close to where Watson’s former colleague had passed.

“Sir!”

Watson wheeled away from where he had been contemplating while watching Holmes examine the scuff marks.

A slight boy stood panting before him, cheeks a rogue colour from the chill and his exertions. His dark eyes were bright with eagerness though his voice too raspy for Watson’s liking.

“Yes David?”

“We found ‘em!”

“Are you sure?” Hope could be cruel, but Watson couldn’t help but cling to it.

David nodded. “Uh huh. I asked about and followed the trail all careful like. I didn’t go close and covered my tracks with that ‘orrid cologne stuff you gave me.”

Watson chuckled at that.

“Old Gladys recognised the fella from the picture you gave me.”

It was Larry! Desperate hope and fear clashed even as Watson wondered who, or what, had pursued his former colleague.

“You are sure he did not hear or see you?”

“As sure as can be!” David grinned before divulging the address which Watson memorised. Withdrawing his wallet Watson counted out the money, handing it over to the bright lad.

“Very well, now here are two shillings-”

The boy’s eyes went wide, mouth slack before he coughed.

“-And here is a note,” Watson hurriedly fished out his little notebook and pen. “Go into the hospital and see Dr Wójcik. He knows me and will treat you. Don’t think about deceiving me otherwise I shall have Sherlock – I mean Holmes – see to you.”

Watson glared sternly at David who evidently knew when not to argue. Therefore, the boy pocketed the money with a dazed expression and began walking to the hospital before calling out softly over his shoulder, “Your secret is safe with me!”

Watson blushed and met Holmes’ amused expression.

“I best go alone Holmes.”

Holmes looked unhappy but nodded.

“I agree though reluctantly. Mr Larry may run otherwise. Go, but be careful. I shall follow these marks and see if I can discover more about our mysterious stalker. Now, do not fret John. I shall be careful, but it appears your friend Kotov was indeed followed. If I need to, I will call upon Lestrade.”

Satisfied that Holmes would be cautious for his sake and knowing that Holmes had done this hundreds of times, (that is, tracking down a trail), Watson departed with a quick press of hands, mindful of their surroundings.

It was time to locate Larry and usher him to safety before the moon rose. Holding onto his walking stick tightly, the silver wolf’s head a grim comfort, for it could be that he would be forced to wield it like two men had prior to him: Larry and Larry’s father.

Behind him, Sherlock Holmes pulled his coat closer and stood on the low wall, eyes staring with a peculiar glint the compressed plants on the other side, a now disused and overgrown little park.

Then with a glance at the departing figure of the man he loved, Sherlock Holmes began walking along the low wall, observing both path he trod and the path alongside the wall in the abandoned park.

* * *

David’s directions led Watson to a dark thoroughfare populated by shabby houses and a pub on the corner. Aware that he was obviously out of place, Watson did his best to promote an aura of casualness and confidence.

The attitude worked sufficiently that no one paid too much attention to him, though his doctor’s bag did cause some fleeting interest. Watson rarely carried his Gladstone these days, but not knowing the condition Larry might be in had elected to do so. Unfortunately, it also limited his ability to respond to danger.

If attacked – by wolf man or human – he would have to resort to swinging his bag or stick. His pistol was the final line of defence and one Watson intended only to use against the wolf man for he had loaded it with precious silver bullets.

He had no refills for he had insisted Sherlock carry the spare gun and silver bullets, arguing he had the walking stick as well for protection.

His dear Holmes had been unhappy but consented since it was the logical thing to do. Now Watson was even more grateful for his unease about the stalking incident had phantoms haunting his thoughts.

Still, Watson pushed those distractions to one side and turned right into a small dank corridor, the brick walls mouldy. The rank smell was unpleasant and Watson was relieved when the passageway fed into a small stone courtyard.

Three houses circled the courtyard and according to David, were split into multiple rooms for tenants. One floor could house two to three families. Dispiriting though at least conditions were gradually improving.

A single streetlight was positioned in the far right-hand corner of the crowded square, but currently was not yet lit. It would be soon for the sun was sinking, the sky ablaze.

Swallowing against the chill that the sight of the waning sun brought, Watson limped heavily to the door behind which Larry was supposed to be living. He prayed that Larry was not yet chained or locked up as the man he had known would not willingly allow the beast to roam free.

Reaching the house in question, Watson felt the rise of black humour in his heart. At least Larry had chosen a ground floor dwelling. In his current condition – sore and exhausted from his walk – a flight of stairs would defeat Watson.

Reluctantly placing his black bag on the ground Watson kept a sure grip on his cane, wolf’s head pointing to the door as he knocked on the wood. Heart hammering in his chest, head light, Watson heard a quick step and the door was flung open to reveal Larry Talbot.

The man’s features were pale under weathered skin and wrought with agony and desperation. Yet the dark brown eyes were alight with unshed tears that spilled at the sight of Watson.

“Watson! I thought I smelled you, but thought myself mad until I heard your knock. Then I had to find out for certain.”

Overcome with emotion Watson nodded and stumbled inside. The tall well-built man stooped to pluck his black bag off the ground and slammed the door shut, worrying Watson that it would surely break under the force.

Hardly had that concern occurred before Larry was in front of him and Watson cast aside all his reserve to embrace the friend who had died twice and risen from the dead twice. There were no words for what they had endured, Larry most of all.

All that remained was raw emotion, festering like a vivid wound left to become septic instead of being cleaned and stitched cleanly and permitted to heal.

The curse of the Wolf Man had denied them all this healing, leaving only terrible grief and the dread that they could never mourn properly, for there appeared to be no release from this curse for Larry.

Larry’s arms about him were like bands of iron and unbreakable. Watson shuddered under their power and the heaving chest he was crushed against. He couldn’t escape unless Larry willed it. Fear prickled his belly but Watson ignored it in favour of merely clutching at the ghost in his arms.

“We thought you dead, Maleva and I.” His voice was a shambles, a brimming pool of confusion and even some anger.

Watson smelt wolf as Larry rested his cheek on Watson’s head. It was a scent he knew well from when Larry was hunting him in the town of Llanwelly. Watson swallowed his gasp and tried stilling his frantic heart.

“I am sorry,” Larry’s gravely voice was raw with regret. “I wanted to be dead…I _deserve_ to be dead for everyone I killed.”

How could his friend say such things?

“This…curse…is not your fault.” His lips were moving against Larry’s shirt, which was rather wet from his sobbing. Larry’s arms tightened and Watson breathed painfully. The iron grip lessened slightly and Watson allowed his anguish to spill forth in a mumble that he was relieved that Larry could at least hear due to his enhanced hearing.

“Do not torment those who love you by saying you deserve to die – wasn’t it sufficient that Maleva supported your wish to die, when she had lost one son already?”

Larry said nothing, for what could he say to Watson’s plea? He merely groaned, his anguish on par with Watson’s.

Realising he had to seize control for every minute brought them nearer to the rising of the moon, Watson managed to pull back slightly. Larry’s surprised face, a mess of tears and red eyes and flushed cheeks peered down at him.

Watson knew he fared no better, for his face was hot and eyes sore from his weeping.

“We can discuss this later. First we must take you to the safe house Holmes and I have prepared.”

“Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? He _knows?”_

“Yes and he was magnificent about it Larry. Don’t fret, he will keep this a secret.”

Watson paused then asked the question tormenting him. “Why didn’t you come to me? Last year when you were London and this year now?”

Larry’s smile was bleak. “Last year I barely knew myself and couldn’t think until I left these shores. Now…now when I rose again it was because of a silly couple practising magic they shouldn’t. I killed them and fled.”

Horrified at his friend’s proclamation Watson dug his fingers into Larry’s side, head swimming. His left leg was on fire and his exhaustion made everything muggy.

“I couldn’t bear what I had done so returned to England. I meant to seek you out but the moon caught me off guard last night. Dear heaven, I could have killed so many.”

“But you _didn’t_ old chap, though the farmer and butcher would disagree.”

Larry’s lips trembled at his weak joke.

“Fetch your belongings Larry so we can reach the safe house.”

Larry nodded and finally released Watson who barely kept his footing – only saved from collapsing disgracefully to the floor by Larry hastily catching his arm and guiding him to a rather torn apart armchair. Watson grimaced and made a mental note to cover the cost to the no doubt slum landlord.

As Larry darted about Watson caught his breath he decided to ask what was bothering him.

"Do you recall anything from last night? Smells? Snippets of visions? Emotions"

Larry frowned then thirdly shook his head. "It's all a mess. The best I can dredge up is that I was following someone then the wind changed and there was the smell of the animal pens."

Relief warred with the unease within Watson, but eventually relief won. A fragment of suspicion lingered, but Watson knew he had no time left to ponder his concerns over the mystery creature that had stalked Dr Kotov last night.

Surely it must have been Larry. 

Still he fretted for Holmes, but sternly chiding himself that Holmes was perfectly capable and would be accompanied by Lestrade who was a fair shot, Watson faced his current predicament. He had the challenge of ushering Larry to safety before the moon rose and he was no longer Watson's friend.

As if hearing his unspoken thoughts, Larry finished packing his meagre belongings into one scuffed brown leather bag and bent to retrieve Watson’s fallen cane, carefully avoiding the silver head. Passing it to him Larry smiled ruefully.

"It has been a long time Watson."

Watson curled his hand over the silver wolf's head. He knew his smile was full of grief.

"Something to remember you and your father by old boy. Sadness and happiness all mixed into one. Not to forget Gwen or Maleva."

Larry simply swallowed and nodded. His jaw was clenched and eyes wet with memories: of dark nights, a woman’s perfume, the scent of wolfsbane and a woman who had been like a mother to him.

Tenderly touching Larry's elbow Watson whispered, "I'm afraid I shall need some help Larry."

In a second a strong arm was gently wound with his, helping him rise so that together they left the temporary lodgings Larry had procured. The instant they stepped outside they were plunged into a thick fog had sprung up. The last blaze of the setting sun was lost, and only a pale glimmer of the lamp light in the corner - lit in deference to the weather – offered illumination. 

Alas, the pool of light it afforded was more eerie than helpful and Watson wondered if they had stepped back into Victorian London as they hurried along – or at least, walked as fast as possible with Larry supporting Watson with his strength.

The gloomy atmosphere where the fog pressed on their skin and clothes and felt like it was clogging their lungs was deeply unsettling. Watson limped in a haze of memories and he suspected so did Larry. Despite the distinct lack of trees or flowering wolfsbane Watson could have sworn he could hear a mournful cry from the past and the haunting sensation of being hunted.

Shrugging off the haunting recollections as best as possible, Watson led Larry to the safe house as swiftly as he was able.

* * *

"Careful Lestrade!" 

"I am being as careful as possible considering we are wading through these blasted bushes."

Lestrade's low hiss of annoyance at Holmes' warning was expected - not that Holmes could blame the Inspector. The rose bushes surrounding the deceptively pretty appearing property had come as a surprise. The house was in a better area of Whitechapel

Clean windows with pretty flowered curtains, whitewashed steps and a polished door formed a picture of quaint gentility. A clever ruse nonetheless to ensure less unwanted curiosity from the neighbours.

Hence their approach through the rose bushes, for their business was spying and less than legal. Only years of acquaintance had persuaded Lestrade, the upright policeman, to firstly believe his story and secondly to accompany Holmes on his illicit venture.

Lestrade's shriek of " _Werewolves?"_ had fortunately passed unheard by passers-by when the broad shouldered man had appeared at Holmes' hiding spot down the street, summoned by a telegram.

_"I hope not Lestrade. Yet I promised Watson to assist and I followed wolf prints that transformed to a human's in a little overgrown park. If Larry is here and David was mistaken…"_

_"Full moon terror. Fine. I don't even wish to know how this fits into last year's murder, so let's move before my morals catch up."_

Holmes had been greatly moved by Lestrade's loyalty and generosity, so with a squeeze of a shoulder he led his true and stalwart friend towards their destination.

Now, unfortunately, in their bid to remain unobtrusive they were being stabbed by jagged thorns that pricked bare wrists poking out from gloves or ankles unprotected by shoes. Their overcoat and trousers fended off the worst, but smelling of blood with a werewolf potentially present wasn't ideal, especially as though night had fallen though the moon had yet to rise. Only the glimmer of the streetlamps abetted them.

"If we catch an infection from this venture _you_ are explaining that to Watson, not me," remarked Lestrade as they reached the back of the property. 

"So quickly does comradeship die!" whispered Holmes, pulling free his torch and switching it on. He shielded the glare and watched in interest as the wily police detective took out a toolkit.

"What? Man develops bad habits in your company. Look at Watson. Straight-laced doctor prior to your friendship, now galivants about with _werewolves_."

"One werewolf."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Pardon me."

Just then the window Lestrade was fiddling with popped with a tiny click. Smirking at his efforts Lestrade pushed the glass plane.

"I best go first Lestrade. I'm taller, but a touch slimmer."

Reluctance coloured Lestrade's reply. "Don't die on me. Watson will have my head."

"I doubt either of us would be leaving alive, Lestrade, if Larry is already transformed."

Lestrade said nothing, for what could he say? Instead they briefly grasped hands and continued their task. 

Holmes handed the torch to Lestrade before lying flat. His greatcoat was sufficient to ward off the nastiest thorns, so holding back winces of pain Holmes crawled through the opening. Pitch darkness lay beyond, with the only illumination from the torch Lestrade tried shining through the gap as discreetly as possible.

The weak light revealed a cellar with a powerful odour of decay. Swallowing down bile Holmes realised he was balanced precariously on a tall set of shelves. Dropping to the floor Holmes fumbled for his matchbox and lit three matches. The orange flames flared into existence and Holmes saw what the shelves were housing…dear heaven!

"Lestrade, don't-"

Alas, his stubborn and faithful companion was already joining him.

"Blimey," announced the man hoarsely, face pale in the combined glare of their torch and matches. "Please tell me this Larry Talbot doesn't keep human trophies. Puts the Ripper to shame."

"Not the Larry Talbot I heard Watson tell of."

Holmes blew out the matches and faced Lestrade.

"You should go. It's not safe here."

"Here, I'm not leaving you so don't be so stupid. We-"

Lestrade never finished his sentence as a sudden howl echoed through the small chamber.

Holmes had rarely experienced the sensation of the very blood freezing in his veins, but at this juncture he felt more sympathetic to such flowery descriptions in the novels Watson read.

Forcing himself to move, Holmes turned in the direction of the howl to catch a glimpse of quite a horrific vision in the unwavering torchlight. Lestrade was to be commended for his remarkably steady grip under the circumstances.

Five dogs - or wolves - were struggling down a stone staircase. Red eyes gleamed like hellfire, jaws were white with spittle and chomping teeth, while their bulk was massive.

They would only have a moment before the pack was upon them for the staircase was narrow and in-between them and the pack was a glass partition to shield the plants growing here.

Lestrade grabbed his shoulder and dragged him towards the surprising garden patch.

"Wolfsbane? I thought it poisonous to werewolves…and humans if ingested." Holmes was wary and confused.

Lestrade shuddered at the unpleasant prospect that a werewolf would plant so much of the dreaded flower here.

There was no time however to discuss the reasons behind such an odd choice for they had to do their best to prepare before the dogs or wolves reached them. Instead, both men stood shoulder to shoulder, unspeaking, for they knew the glass wouldn't hold for long.

The police Inspector drew his gun, also filled with blessed silver bullets courtesy of Holmes. Also drawing his gun Holmes tried to descry which one was the werewolf.

Even as he did, Holmes recalled Watson’s description of Larry being more of a hybrid; that is, a mix of a Wolf and Man in appearance rather than a full wolf. Dread sickened Holmes.

"Lestrade…"

"Yes?" 

"There's more than one werewolf."

Lestrade was quick on the uptake. "Not Larry then?"

"No. An excellent case of _prestidigitation_ , or slight of hand I must admit."

Lestrade flicked a smile at him, amused by the black humour in face of the odds. The scrabbling of paws had him return his attention to the five wolves or dogs, neither could quite tell. Even though Lestrade was holding the torch and sighting his gun down it – for without its light they were doomed – the movements of the pack made it awkward to identify for certain.

It mattered little considering the circumstances and both men stoically watched as the pack flung themselves at the glass partition. The glass shuddered and cracked. They could now see a much larger wolf on four paws sitting calmly and observing proceedings ad became aware of a pale silvery sheen that haloed the creature.

The moon had risen and somehow – some magic, black perhaps – the moon’s luminescence was able to reach and touch this creature that surveyed them with no semblance of remorse or pity.

"Well, it was nice knowing you Holmes; not that I'm giving up but…"

"I understand Lestrade and I am sorry."

"Ha, couldn't allow you all the fun could I? Now, make those bullets count. We both have loved ones to get home too if we can."

Holmes nodded sharply ignoring a pesky tightening in his throat. _Watson, I love you old fellow and I'll try my hardest to come home._

Holding the image of his dear doctor in his mind, Holmes raised his gun as the glass failed in a roaring cascade. Lestrade's presence was warm, a comfort and reminder along with Watson to not fail.

Gunfire filled the cellar amid the shrieks of a deranged pack and a werewolf's solitary desolate cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Spooktacular Prompt, Week 4: [prestidigitation](https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prestidigitation): _How you use it is up to you._
> 
> After looking up the word I used it in the sense of “sleight of hand”, with Larry being a diversion for the second Wolf Man.


	4. Cry to the Heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onto the foggy scene of London rises a full moon, her bright beams concealed by the pea-souper, but still fulsome in her power. Through the dark and foggy night dwells horror within the mind and body and before the moon sets a third time there will be cries to the heavens…of woe or celebration…or both?

* * *

Consciousness crept back gradually. First sound: a distant drip of some fluid, water perhaps. Taste followed, a horrid metallic flavour in his mouth, cloying his throat and lungs.

In desperation Lestrade rolled over and spat out a mouthful of blood that had built up as he had lain knocked out. He could hear Holmes doing the same, vomiting blood and something else.

Weakly squinting, Lestrade could just discern in the flickering light of his still miraculously working torch Mr Holmes on his knees spitting out blood along with a fleshly goblet.

_Dear heavens._

The stench of the cellar then hit Lestrade as he tried to regain his equilibrium. He had been aware of the smell of decay, blood and faeces as an undercurrent as he awoke, but with his head clearing the scents were sharper and harder to ignore. Yet he must breathe, so Lestrade used what strength lingered in his limbs to stagger to his feet. Everything spun then settled, mercifully before he dry heaved.

"Water." Lestrade winced at how hoarse he sounded, throat raw, mouth bloody. His neck was aflame and he dared not guess why.

"Yes," agreed Holmes, equally disordered. 

Lestrade swayed as he waited for the detective to rise. He noticed with a spike of concern that Holmes was cradling his right arm to his chest. Holmes however managed to stand and even retrieve the torch. In the wavering splutters of light they surveyed the carnage.

Somehow they had survived this chaos and Lestrade could only depend on a miracle for the reason why, or sheer good luck. His gun obsessed uncle must also partly be responsible for the tiresome lessons he had insisted Lestrade attend. Those hard taught ingrained skills had certainly assisted.

Shattered glass was everywhere and Lestrade could feel pinpricks over his exposed hands that indicated he had not escaped unscathed. Among the shards of glass were scattered the bodies of five dogs with a bullet in each.

The werewolf itself had transformed to reveal a middle-aged man. In the intermittent torchlight they couldn't quite identify many features beyond a face set in a cold severe countenance, lips drawn back to show canines sharp and discoloured. Teeth and lips were smeared black...no red. His naked body was littered with scars, with the bullet hole over his heart a yawning hole that wouldn't heal.

Full of horror both men supported the other to where water was trickling from a previously unnoticed water pipe, which fed the plant bed full of that dreadful wolfsbane, much of it now trampled. Unfortunately, the twisted position of the pipe mouth-head left no room for them to drink directly from it.

Instead, from the bent pipe water spurted out, filling the muddy soil. Uncaring at this point, Lestrade collapsed with Holmes and both men scooped water that was pooling in the impressions made by paw prints. 

Rinsing their mouths was unpleasant and barely improved matters, but after a couple minutes of rinsing and weakly consuming some tainted water they finally broke the chilled hush of this ill-fated cellar.

"You are hurt. Did he bite you?" Lestrade grimaced at the rawness of voice, mouth and throat little reprieved by their drinking of the polluted water. His neck had brands of hot iron crossing the skin.

Holmes' ashen pallor increased and Lestrade would have panicked if he had the energy when at that juncture Holmes held out his injured right arm. In his left he gripped the torch, directing the beam, so that Lestrade saw the torn fabric and jagged wound where razor teeth had rent skin and muscle.

"Perhaps, I cannot say for definite." Holmes spoke slowly, fatigued with pain. His lips were flecked with dried blood Lestrade abruptly and uncomfortably recalled.

"The first dog I picked off, when the second jumped amid the cascading glass and slammed into me. I succeeded in fending it off with my gun hand. There was a dreadful amount of blood, gore and pain, but I had no time to absorb the facts as in the moment the dog drew its last breath, I had _him_ to contend with. As I did I recall that you were facing the three remaining canines."

Holmes coughed and Lestrade weakly grasped his uninjured left wrist in a show of compassion as well a need for contact on his side.

Holmes, for once, did not shy away from personal touch that was not from Watson. Rather, he continued speaking, tone lifeless.

"We had brief contact. I even bit the werewolf in a desperate bid to free myself. It worked to temporarily drive the beast off in anger. Fortunately, I can shoot with my left hand and your aim is also true."

Lestrade wanted to cry that such a good man might be infected with _Werewolfism_ , but tears were impossible, only action.

"Here, you brave idiot. Let me bandage your arm. Stop you from bleeding to death or getting an infection."

Lestrade could just glimpse the ghoulish wry smile twisting Holmes' face. Infection was a terrifying prospect, but now they both had to fret over another more soul destroying infection. Refusing to dwell on the frightening possibilities, Lestrade removed his coat and scarf with some difficulty. Feeling its wetness and not wishing to entertain why, Lestrade only succeeded in yanking off his jumper with his failing strength, shoulder throbbing and limbs leaden.

Numb fingers worked to stem the flow from Holmes' arm, while also temporarily binding his gaping flesh shut. Bile rose in his belly as he created the bandage from his jumper and Lestrade marvelled at how Dr Watson could spend his life treating such wounds without fleeing the scene screaming.

Holmes to his credit did not cry out, just stifled his agonising gasps with his left sleeve. The torch was cupped between them and Lestrade was so horribly sick of its sputtering illumination that he welcomed its death with a sigh.

Into this ghastly scene, with the calling cards of a battlefield in the grim and bloody aftermath, Holmes spoke in a fractured whisper, driving away what little warmth was left in Lestrade.

"We must hope that someone notices our absence soon and tracks us here. Unless I am mistaken and you have the energy to walk?"

Lestrade croaked out what he meant to be a laugh. "No, not even if our Wolf Man rose again. You are stuck with me Holmes and we have one angry doctor to contend with."

"I pray we do."

There was nothing Lestrade could say to that so he crawled until he was sitting beside Holmes. His sodden scarf returned loosely to his neck while he still remembered that he might have need of staunching whatever had happened to his neck.

"Did you inform anyone of where you were going?" asked Holmes.

"And risk a scandalous inquiry both now and into the events of last year? Hardly...No, wait a second. I _did_ swing by that doctor in the London Hospital. Thought it best to mention where we were in case we needed medical backup."

"I congratulate you on your foresight Lestrade."

"Hey, we aren't all idiots Mr Holmes. Now put your head on my lap and rest. Damn knows I have to sleep. Head and neck hurts."

Holmes's obedient acquiescence frightened Lestrade as it evidenced how badly off was his friend.

_Please no, Watson will never survive your loss._

Unable to speak Lestrade just rested his head against a damp wall, wet soil and the conflicting scents within this accursed cellar; all foul bar one strain that intermingled with the dead bodies and gore to form a strangely intoxicating and lethargic drug. What that scent was Lestrade couldn’t guess, beyond the thought it could only be used for evil purposes – such as sending your victims to sleep.

If that were true neither of them had a chance of fighting the intoxicating and lethargic drug it created and all resided in being discovered as soon as possible.

Consumed by his sombre thoughts he nearly missed Holmes' faint words.

"No idiot Lestrade. Just a friend who I unnecessarily placed in danger. May you and Watson forgive me!"

"Forgiven, though there is nothing to forgive. Now _rest."_

Holmes was already unconscious so Lestrade rested a hand on Holmes, sleep also pulling him under. He hoped Dr Wójcik would come sooner rather than later.

☆☆☆

The night was a lonely one for Watson as he simultaneously guarded his friend Larry and waited for him to transform back into a man. He also couldn't help but fret over Sherlock.

Where was the man he loved? 

Watson glanced at the window of the sitting room he occupied. It was a small and sparsely furnished room with a trio of comfortable well stuffed armchairs, a low table next to each to place drinks and food. A fire afforded extra heat even though gas and electricity were available.

Currently Watson had only the fireplace burning and crackling away. A table lamp offered a bit more illumination for his heavy going text that he had procured after much difficulty and correspondence. Dr Wójcik still looked at him with a bemused if cautious expression.

Watson snorted at the memory of the small Pole gazing up at him, bewildered and considerably alarmed when he first heard of the text in passing from his fellow doctor. 

Not that Watson blamed him, the legends of werewolves and vampires and their assorted kin still lived and breathed in many corners of that land.

_Educated and wise people_ , thought Watson in his opinion.

Watson tapped his fingers on a page, and turned his gaze to the window that offered no vision of the risen moon, veiled as she was by the thick bank of fog that had descended on London earlier.

Lost as he was in memory Watson barely acknowledged this fact.

To hear of such a book merely as an aside, when discussing myths and folklore in general! It made Watson giddy with how close he had come to missing a potentially life-changing...no, soul changing book.

After some bluster and mumbling, Wójcik had agreed to contact the collector he knew and speak on his behalf, whilst keeping Watson's identity a secret. This had been not long after Watson had returned from his trip to the Continent pursuing Larry and his parting from Maleva.

Now, only a bare week ago the translated book had arrived, with an inquisitive if rather concerned old friend and former colleague examining him.

Yet all that had been said was a promise for aid if required, for which Watson was profoundly grateful. Now that Holmes knew he could approach others with a free conscious.

Once his Holmes returned that is and at that reminder the unease in his belly surged forth again with a vengeance.

He put the book aside onto the table. Rising carefully, and holding the silver Wolf headed cane, Watson ambled to the window. Peering through it, all he saw was the same blasted fog from earlier, perhaps a touch less thick than when he and Larry had ventured forth from Larry's temporary residence.

It mattered little in truth, because this street was a deserted one, where the lamps remained unlit. The other buildings dotting this forgotten world were dilapidated and used only by Mycroft's people. Watson could infer what the building he stood in was used for, considering it had reinforced prison cells two floors below.

A prison for certain people where their reveal to the public could be embarrassing for political or social reasons. No torture devices at least since that was not Mycroft’s method.

Holmes had of course sneaked them into this place after a brief telephone call to his brother. What Mycroft must have thought concerning the sudden urgent requirement for extra steel bars and a door banded with silver was beyond Watson.

Still, Mycroft had delivered, and Watson thought it likely that there were men observing the house in case help was warranted.

If Larry escaped and tore his way through him then such help would be needed.

Reminded of his mission, Watson squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the cold glass.

_Sherlock, please come back._

Deep in his bones Watson knew something was wrong, because Holmes would have contacted him by now if he had been delayed due to normal reasons. Should he contact Mycroft? Maybe he could try signalling one of the silent hidden observers? Though if they could see anything through this fog it would be a miracle.

Nevertheless, he was filled with anxious hope and so limped back to his armchair to consider a viable method, for despite his fears he couldn't abandon Larry. His first duty was to protect Larry and his second, to protect others from Larry.

As if hearing his thoughts a muffled howl graced the small sitting room.

"Oh Larry." Compassion for his friend and for his dear wonderful Holmes mingled and was indeed bittersweet.

Just as he was debating using a candle to signal - as had been done in case of a Hound and a greedy relative - there was banging on the door. Startled and greatly alarmed, Watson drew his revolver and left his stick with reluctance by his armchair. 

As he entered the cold dark hallway however he heard voices he knew.

" _Watson! Quickly, let us in! It is Wójcik and Kotov!"_

Overjoyed and worried as to why and how his friends were here, Watson hurried to the door to wrench the locks back. Opening the door revealed a gruesome sight.

None other than his dear Sherlock and loyal Lestrade were with the Pole and Russian, accompanied by two men who did not seem like the sort of character either of his former colleagues would spend leisure time with; not with that hardened gleam to their eyes which contrasted with their somehow unremarkable appearance. Nor with the subtle yet real threat they posed in their quiet manner.

_Mycroft's men._ Watson did not doubt it for a second.

More importantly, the two strange men were supporting Sherlock and Lestrade who were barely on their feet. Horrified, Watson stood aside to allow the group to enter, with Wójcik and Kotov leading the way. 

"To your left," grunted the one holding Sherlock who moaned insensibly, his weight nearly fully on the fellow.

Unsurprised by their knowledge and more upset by the state of Holmes and Lestrade, Watson locked up with suddenly steady hands. It was always so.

Detective work was Holmes' business and while Watson had his shining moments it was the world of medicine where he shone brightest. His profession never truly vanished, just simply waiting in the shadows to leap into the spotlight when needed.

Well, Holmes needed him now as did Lestrade.

Watson limped to the sitting room full of grim resolve despite the sick horror shimmering under his skin, his heart hammering and mind chanting softly " _Sherlock, Sherlock, Holmes!"_

He reached the sitting room as the two men eyed the door leading deeper into the house.

"He's below."

The one holding Holmes nodded brusquely and proceeded through. Watson seized his black bag, matching the ones borne by his colleagues. Together the three of them followed the men down a corridor to a sparse and cold clinical room where an operating table waited. 

Even Watson was a bit taken aback for this room had been locked until now. He exchanged a hapless glance with his companions while Holmes and Lestrade were temporarily lowered to hard seats.

"I'll clean," offered Kotov, moving off at Watson's nod. Indeed, Watson could only focus on his beloved as Kotov sterilised the table and equipment with carbolic soap.

Aware of his audience Watson was careful, pressing his hand to Sherlock's neck, scrutinizing the pallid features, the unhealthy flush of fever in the brow and cheeks, and the bloodless lips.

Watson's throat was tight, and found he could only speak in a trembling whisper.

"Holmes? Holmes...wh- what happened?"

There was only a moan which pierced Watson's soul. In agony he turned to examine his friend's frame, all colour leaching from his cheeks.

Blood, soil and what looked like stains from other body fluids, were ingrained in Sherlock's suit jacket and trousers. His coat was absent.

His shoes were filthy with blood and fragments of gore - missed by whoever had attempted to clean him.

What frightened Watson the most was the gauze and bandages covering a huge swathe of Holmes' right arm. Glancing over at Lestrade showed only a slightly better picture.

Equally stained, the only discernible wound was under a thick bandage around the throat.

"Kotov and I found them like that,' said Wójcik tiredly.

Watson met his friend's exhausted expression. Pale eyes full of quiet horror gazed back.

"The Inspector left word of his appointment with Mr Holmes with me at the hospital. He asked that if I heard nothing to call for help, but that you would be occupied here."

The Pole shrugged and Watson followed the movement. "You are hurt too!"

"Nothing to signify," reassured his friend. "I pulled my shoulder climbing through an open window and straight into hell." This proclamation was followed by a shudder.

"I shall never forget what I saw. However, back to my tale. I waited for two hours after my shift ended, until I realised something was wrong. Recalling Kotov's stalking experience last night and the subject of your recent preoccupation I elected for privacy. I therefore called upon Kotov and so we made our way to the house the Inspector had indicated. It was a good thing I had told no one else for what we discovered…" 

Wójcik trailed off then plunged into what he and Kotov had found once the Pole had gained entrance and unlocked the front door.

"We first administered to your fallen comrades. Mr Holmes had a severe wound to his right arm. One of the dogs - or the werewolf -" Here both Watson and Wójcik looked at Mycroft's men who said nothing, merely listened calmly.

Watson could tell that Wójcik was perturbed by their projected serenity but with no other choice he pressed on.

"-had bitten Mr Holmes, gouging skin and muscle to tear out a chunk. The smell of growing infection and gore was terrible. I did my best to clean his wound with what materials I had in my bag, while Kotov discovered the bloody claws mark's on Inspector Lestrade's neck. We fear he knew nothing about them, because while Mr Holmes was bandaged with the Inspector's jumper, he had only loosely looped his scarf around his neck."

"Adrenaline?"

Wójcik nodded in agreement. "His wounds were also festering which I do not understand unless it is due to black magic. We did as much as we could and dared in that awful place. Coming to you seemed the wisest course, as the hospital would raise questions."

"How did you manage? Kotov is…" Watson stopped with a mumble, heat burning his cheeks at his unusual lack of tact.

His friend merely grinned, an odd glimmer of warmth amid this nightmare.

"Kotov is built like a bear while I am more like a small scrawny fox?"

"I ate food when growing!" Called over their industrious companion as he scrubbed and checked on boiling water and the steam of carbolic acid, as it was mixed into the water holding the operating equipment (a mixture of their three black bags and this creepy clinic).

"Hilarious, but for how we managed...only just. Kotov's car was close and we abandoned it only two streets over."

"It will be looked after," said the man who had supported Lestrade and spotted a mop of ash blond hair.

"Oh, thank you," murmured Wójcik nervously before continuing. "When we left I removed some books that I have placed in the sitting room. We can pursue these for information later. When we reached here, the men materialised out of the fog like ghosts, badly frightening us."

"Apologies," drawled Mr Ash Blond.

Kotov remarked, "Forgiven, but be thankful we weren't carrying stakes or guns. Could have been messy otherwise."

Mr Ash Blond, and companion, just smirked.

Wójcik, clearly sensing the awkward atmosphere pushed on. "They took over and led us to this abode, which is when I hammered on your door."

"Thank you for bringing them here." Watson was glad that he was able to say that without stumbling, for his gratitude was immeasurable.

Wójcik's genuine smile was soothing while Kotov's hand on his shoulder was much needed support.

"Come Englishman, we must operate and pray that we can combat the infection that has already set in."

"We will guard Mr Larry and you while you do," reassured Mr Ash Blond.

Watson whispered his thanks even as he and Kotov supported his dear Sherlock to the operating table. As he prepared himself Watson could see reflected in Kotov and Wójcik's eyes the unspoken dread that another infection entirely was working its evil upon Lestrade and Holmes. 

The spectre of that fear lingered as they worked to cleanse polluted flesh a second time and sew ruptured skin back together.

☆☆☆

Holmes gradually became aware of his surroundings. Every muscle and joint hurt, even his bones. Breathing was an interesting if painful experience so Holmes simply tried to exist as he attempted to calibrate all the stimuli he was receiving past the agony crackling through his body.

Soft sheets were under him with an equally comfortable coverlet. A pillow supported his head. A bed then.

Scents overlaid each other, combating for superiority. Carbolic and antiseptic drowned him, but nevertheless the scent that called to him most prominently was Watson’s Eau de Cologne, which caused his heart to leap and forced him to open his eyes.

Mercifully, the light was dim, though still too bright. Weakly turning his head Holmes blinked and saw a man sitting in the chair by his bed. The man was broad and well-built. His complexion spoke of a life spent outdoors, but with a paleness afforded by recent illness. Despite the genuinely friendly smile wreathing the man's face, his dark eyes were deep wells of such sorrow that grief stirred within him.

"Mr Holmes, welcome back. Don’t worry - Inspector Lestrade is safe. I am Larry Talbot."

_Thank goodness Lestrade is safe._

Speaking was difficult, but not impossible. His voice w a grating rasp, but thankfully Larry Talbot did not flinch or otherwise comment.

"So you are safe. Watson was worried."

Larry wiped sudden tears from the corners of his eyes. "A good man and friend. How I have repaid him!"

It was a confusing sentiment as Holmes sensed that Larry was referring to a recent event. Clearly realising his incomprehension, Larry elaborated.

"The werewolf who attacked you had been tracking me from the Continent to England. He was part of some cabal. If I had gone straight to Watson instead of hiding…"

"He would have pursued you still Mr Talbot and instead targeted my Watson. This way my dear friend escaped."

Larry sighed. "As you say. Ah! Watson."

Holmes had also smelled Watson and turned eagerly to the door. A second later his love had opened the door and entered with a tray. Upon seeing him awake the tray shook badly and was only saved by Larry's quick step and even faster reflexes in catching the tray ere it even did more than slide a little from nerveless fingers.

Watson did not hesitate and flew as fast as his leg would allow to Holmes. Larry shut the door with his foot and busied himself with positioning the tray on a side table and gazing at a painting with studied effort.

Actions such as these couldn't help endear the Wolf Man to Holmes and any grievance concerning Watson's suffering at having to hunt his friend was forgiven.

Then all that existed was Watson's right hand touching his cheek with shaky fingers, his left hand covering Holmes' hands so gently it made Holmes' heart ache. The tenderness with which Watson kissed him pierced his soul, his doctor’s salty tears the wine of heaven.

Watson pulled away to lay his head briefly on Holmes' shoulders, words an insensible mess of hitched breaths and stammered mutterings.

Could a heart break in reality?

Perhaps the poets and innumerable authors of prose were correct.

"Oh John, I am sorry my dear fellow. So sorry."

Watson shook his head and raised his wet visage to Holmes, who fancied he saw the dim light of the candles transforming the water droplets to crystal.

"Sherlock, my dear...We..we shall get through this." That had been a little clearer and Watson swallowed hard, striving for speech. He succeeded but via starts, stops and starts. Yet all Holmes cared for was that Watson lived as did he.

Nothing else mattered.

"We...we think you and Lestrade will escape the curse. Yes, Lestrade is next door. His wounds were less in number yet severe. He has woken once and taken water and broth."

Watson inhaled sharply, gaze darting to his injured arm. "Neither of your wounds have healed, which Larry assures me is promising, for when he was bitten his wound had healed by morning. We are taking precautions, but it is now mid-afternoon and neither of you are displaying signs of _Werewolfism_. 

"Kotov and Wójcik have slept - as have I - and are reading through the books they collected from the house of our mysterious French werewolf. Mycroft's men are guarding us and the other house."

Seeing his bewilderment Watson actually smiled – what a glorious sight! He rose from stiff knees and as if on cue Larry carried the tray over. Watson washed his hands then began removing his bandages to clean the site and replace with fresh ointments and wrapping.

As he did, both Larry and he filled him in on events since last night. Afterwards, Holmes did his best to recall what had occurred once Watson had left him outside the London Hospital. His dear John gripped his hand more than once during that tale and while Holmes would never desire to worry Watson, it was a pleasant sensation amidst the agony that sparked throughout his flesh.

Once all was said and done, Holmes slipped into a healing sleep, an incessant thought nagging him that something was wrong, that despite the reassurance he and Lestrade had escaped unscathed that not all was quite right. No matter how illogical such a fear was, it was a sensation that troubled him into his nightmares.

☆☆☆

A full moon had risen when he awoke next. How he knew Holmes wasn’t sure and couldn’t rationalise.

What facts he could ascertain was the absolute necessity in getting up and out of his bed to find John.

So, with some difficultly, he succeeded in dragging his aching body from the bed. Standing was surprisingly easy once he up so Holmes took stock. His right arm burned incessantly – probably from his skin and muscle healing Watson would say. He resisted removing the bandage and instead looked about for a dressing gown.

There wasn’t one, so Holmes continued on. Nothing would stop him from seeing his beloved doctor – and that he _must_ seek Watson and relish every inch of that wonderful man was paramount.

Ignoring the lack of logic accompanying his thoughts, Holmes jogged to the door. He was buzzing with energy, the agony he had been in earlier now a furious hum under his skin and in his blood. Vocalised, it would be a scream.

_Move! NOW. HUNT._

Hunt? Perplexed at the choice of words hammering in his head and their poor taste considering what had happened earlier, Holmes sensed Lestrade nearby; or had he smelled Lestrade?

Everything was such a chaotic kaleidoscope of scents, colours and taste that his hearing was peculiarly also affected. How else could he hear the heartbeats of the men guarding Larry two floors below and the man taking a smoke break down the hallway in the kitchen?

_Fool. Vulnerable._

Uneasy at that cruel addition, Holmes decided to go to Lestrade who was awake and waiting for him.

They could go to Watson together. After all, there was sufficient for two of them. Watson’s friends were present and were pleasant and accommodating company, especially Wójcik who Lestrade already knew quite well.

Yes, they would hunt their company together.

Relieved at the focus this decision brought, Holmes sprinted the few steps to Lestrade’s room and burst inside as the full moon outside drew higher in the heavens.

☆☆☆

After what seemed like an exhausting marathon the past day and night, Watson settled into the third night of the full moon and the second where he would be guarding Larry.

At least he was not alone, for Mycroft’s men – different men than the past twenty four hours – stood like sentinels outside Larry’s door, with another two manning the front and back entrances. Others were surely dotted up and down the street, but after a brief respite yesterday afternoon, the awful London pea-souper had fallen again, turning the world into an impenetrable darkness.

Any light could not be discerned until one was nearly on top of it. His former colleagues and dear friends, had remained once they had discharged their duties to replacement doctors. Kotov was currently pursuing one manuscript which detailed rather graphically the life of their French werewolf and how he had actually _invited_ the curse of _Werewolfism_ upon himself.

The werewolf had once been Andre Dubois, a gentleman who had become a priest out of necessity, rather than a true calling to the profession. Once situated in a lovely parish he had become fascinated in the old legends of that village, that talked of werewolves and vampires, (two sides of the same coin in many a folk tale), and the ghosts of those who couldn’t cross over but lingered.

Eventually, due to some sort of dispute (Kotov wasn’t certain over what or even whom, since the text was unclear and referenced a diary that they hadn’t yet discovered), he dutifully became embroiled in seeking vengeance through a local blacksmith, who apparently portrayed an innocent front whilst harbouring rather unsavoury practices.

Watson rather wished the word “gore”, “ghoulish” and “tomb” were not thrown together so casually in the implications directed against said blacksmith. Kotov certainly agreed.

Even so, he persevered as did Wójcik who was piecing together the texts that mirrored in a grim fashion a medical text. In this instance, the details were of how to be turned into a werewolf or vampire.

Grotesque.

Now that Watson had witnessed poor Larry’s transformation he had joined his friends to finally and properly read the precious book that Wójcik had tracked down and had translated for him:

_Werewolfism and Vampirism - Methods, Remedies and Protection_

The word "remedies" had caused hope to leap in his breast and was the original reason for wishing to procure the book to cure Larry. It remained his greatest wish.

“How are the Inspector and Mr Holmes?” asked Wójcik an hour into their silent activities.

“Hmmm? Oh yes.” Watson put aside the book gladly, for the material was dense and the topic dark.

Wójcik stood and stretched, smiling at him. He looked tired even though he had slept. It was a state Watson was familiar with – too many nights and days carrying out hospital shifts, and too many surgeries. The younger man walked about the small sitting room; eyes drawn to the curtained window.

The curtains had been drawn due to the depressing fog, and to try and minimise any accidental interest in their house if, for some bizarre and unfortunate reason, an innocent person strayed across their path. Considering Larry’s entire involvement so far in this tragic tale, Watson wouldn’t be surprised if such a thing would happen. So measures to hopefully prevent or lessen such an evil chance had been taken.

The Pole returned his attention to him and to Kotov who also had also put aside his morbid manuscript and was rolling his broad shoulders.

Watson decided to stretch as well, so that his joints wouldn’t protest later and nor would his right leg.

“Oh they are fine thank goodness! Lestrade was still asleep when I checked. Holmes was a little restless but settled once I tucked him in again.”

Watson ignored the grins and knowing expressions, grateful for his friends’ silence on the topic. Deciding to join the Pole in a turn around the room he picked up his stick, comforted by the weight of the silver-headed wolf topper.

Wójcik shook his head and linked their arms. “I am amazed that for all their efforts they succeeded in not being infected with a case of _Werewolfism_ , or even vampirism considering their activities last night. I simply pray that the penicillin we have administered does the job of driving the fever from their bodies.”

“It is a miracle when you think that they drank polluted water from those dreadful paw prints. Ah! That hurt my dear fellow.”

Watson grimaced and awkwardly rubbed his right leg, throbbing from the jerk when his walking companion and frozen in place.

Then he saw his friend’s face, ashen with terrified eyes.

“Whatever is the matter? Kotov!”

The Russian was there in an instant, similarly confused and concerned. “Wójcik?”

In a small and strained voice, their mutual friend whispered past bloodless lips, “Did you say that they drank running water from a wolf’s print?”

“No, a dog’s.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well I suppose we can’t be, but does it signify?”

“Oh my dear Watson and Kotov it _does signify, very much so_. Have you not read far enough in the book? Drinking fresh rainwater from a wolf’s paw print is one way to become a werewolf and in that foul cellar, full of blighted herbs, evil texts and dark magic, how can we say for definite that running water wouldn’t suffice just as perfectly?”

Dread pooled in Watson’s stomach and he clung to what rationality he could. “Their wounds haven’t healed.”

Kotov swallowed. “Maybe not yet, but perhaps it is delayed? The moon is still rising and not at its zenith.”

“How do you English say it? _‘The proof is in the pudding’?_ ” queried Wójcik. “I believe we must be sure and take precautions-”

He was interrupted by two howls – very close by – which echoed throughout the building. Below their feet a faint howl was heard in reply.

Watson carefully dropped Wójcik’s arm and spun to face the door to the sitting room that led to the hallway and rooms housing Sherlock and Lestrade. Except that the closed door was now creaking open.

His companions’ weapons – such as they were – had been on their seats. Only Watson was truly armed so, army spirit rising within him, Watson limped forward. The trenches never truly left you and he had fought beside Holms in many a case. He was ready to fight again to protect his friends and London from the man he loved.

Sherlock would want it that way, even though the pain of hurting Holmes seared his soul.

Blast that he left his trusty revolver by the fire!

Behind him he heard Kotov call for help that was already coming from the sound of pounding feet. It probably wouldn’t reach them in time.

Wójcik courageously leapt past him to seize his own weapon, a silver headed stick as well, for he was a poor aim alas.

As the door banged open following a particularly brutal heave, Kotov used Watson’s distracting cry to rush forward and towards Watson’s abandoned pistol. His speed and strength might avail them if only Watson could draw attention towards himself.

Two werewolves stood revealed in the doorway. His beloved Sherlock was edged in front and clearly the Alpha. He was in true wolf form, whilst Lestrade walked as a Wolf Man.

How the curse of _Werewolfism_ took hold was certainly intriguing, but there would be time to contemplate and investigate that if they survived.

For now Watson railed his heart that was shattering like fine crystal and amid the falling shards he stepped forward, hailing the wolves with a cry of pure grief and determination.

_Lestrade, I am so sorry!_

Watson swept his stick before him causing both werewolves to momentarily fall back. Yet it was a brief reprieve and Watson was only just ready to meet the second wave. Kotov and Wójcik however were now beside him, so Watson sallied forth, striking through the ashes of his wailing spirit.

_Oh my Sherlock. Forgive me!_

Then it was all confusion as they sank beneath a whirlwind of gnashing teeth and howling, of silver and the report of a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Written for watsons_woes’ Spooktacular October 2019 Week 5 Prompt:  
> Unsettling Vocabulary: Use some of your favourite spooky, haunting, or otherwise scary words!
> 
> _My choices: Werewolfism, vampires, gore, ghost, tomb_
> 
> 2.) Drinking fresh rainwater from a wolf’s paw print is actually one way to become a werewolf according to legend.
> 
> 3.) Ah yes, the ending. Um…I’m sorry? The story felt right ending it that way…*hides*

**Author's Note:**

> * This was originally written for the dreamwidth community [watsons_woes 2019 Spooktacular fest](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1992966.html). However, I never managed to clean/polish up my entries in time. Still, I enjoyed writing the prompts so decided to post anyway. 
> 
> *This is a series of interconnected chapters, with each chapter based on a prompt from one of the Weeks in the _Spooktacular_ fest for Weeks 2 – 5.
> 
> Chapter 1 is based on the Week 2 Prompt:
> 
> **Cadaver - : a dead body especially : one intended for dissection**  
>  https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cadaver 
> 
> * The title of the fic comes from the famous song “Que Será, Será” as sung by Doris Day. It means “whatever will be, will be.” I thought it fitting for this tale.


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